Touch
by KonspiracyKid
Summary: There's a lot to a relationship, especially one as complicated as Shizuo's and Izaya's. M for later chapters.
1. Touch

**Note!** This chapter is **NOT** M rated! It is very much T! But, if you look at the Author's Nonsense at the bottom, you will see I am thinking of continuing it, and the following chapters would be M rated.

**So if you're looking for porn here, I'm sorry, but you'll have to look elsewhere.** I certainly have some M rated stories of my own if you'd like to sample my writing :)

**xXxXx Touch xXxXx**

Sunday, 8:04 A.M.

I made a little whiny noise and poked the flat black box that was Shizuo's alarm clock until it was facing away from me. I had been awake for around an hour, but he was still asleep. I flopped over, sheets twisting around my legs until I couldn't move them anymore. My left hand landed in the middle of my boyfriend's back, while my right was, like the rest of my arm, squashed under me.

"Izaya," Shizuo muttered, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I kicked my legs free of the 700-thread count Egyptian cotton that bound them and snuggled over to him, resting my head against his strong shoulder. His breath came out as a huge sigh and he seemed to go back to sleep, though I knew I had woken him and he would just rest until something influenced him to get up.

I sat up and lifted my arm so my hand was dangling above him, fingertips just barely reaching the surface of his skin. I began to trace my first and last name lightly over his back in all the alphabets I knew. My nails tickled the nerves in his skin and gave him goosebumps, but he didn't stop me; I imagined it felt nice. Little did he know I was marking him as mine.

I love Shizuo.

I haven't told him yet, but sometimes I love him so much that it hurts in my chest and I have to laugh, to force the hurt out of my lungs. He is my wonderful human, and he does all these wonderfully human things. He is my window to the human soul and psyche. In other humans I find only weakness. I trick them and toy with them and they fail my tests by playing into my hands. Shizuo never does that. He is my special human. I get to experience first-hand both his unrelenting anger and love.

I haven't quit my job, and he hates it. I'm not going to quit just for him. If I quit, it'll have to be for me, and I still like doing what I do. I like playing games with people. I like predicting their actions. I like being right. Sometimes he yells at me, asking me how I can be so cruel. Once he even used the word "inhuman," and I laughed until I fell over on the floor. He started laughing too and dropped the subject. I think he knows he can't change me. At least, not yet.

As for his love, it's more amazing than I could have ever imagined. It didn't start that way. I didn't know I had been in love with him from the moment I saw him. Real life doesn't work like that. It took years for us to notice.

When I kissed him in the alley that day, it was to mess with him. I had grown tired of our games, and needed something fresh to keep me occupied. I thought kissing him would mess with his mind enough that he'd bring something new to our relationship. Maybe fear or awkwardness—something for me to enjoy. I've found that these things come naturally to most men when confronted with homosexuality. I thought Shizuo was the manliest person I knew. He smokes, he drinks, he beats people up. It makes sense.

I was wrong. When I kissed him, he went silent, then he socked me and told me to leave. I did, fascinated by this meek reaction (I had been expecting him to try to kill me then and there, no more excuses), and chose to observe him from a distance.

Before I had a chance he showed up at my apartment early the next morning, saying we needed to talk. I had thought he was Namie, who often forgets her key, and thus I hadn't brought my knife with me. I knew I wouldn't be able to run and get it when he was only a meter away from me. And then he was only a centimeter away from me. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to my own couch, sitting me down and proceeding to have a deep conversation with me while I was in my pajamas.

He asked me why I kissed him and I avoided the question, choosing instead to ramble about fatty tuna, because I knew it would frustrate him. He pinned me to the couch and asked me again. I stared at him, smiling, refusing to answer.

And then he kissed me.

Shizuo kissing me was nothing like me kissing Shizuo. I had pecked him, at best. Sure, it had been a long peck, but it was not intrusive in anyway. It was just the kind of contact that any normal, non-European man might consider shameful.

This was hard and passionate. It shocked my eyes and mouth open, and his tongue slipped inside and played with mine. I forgot how to breathe through my nose, and my lungs filled with his smoky scent. When we broke away I coughed and gasped for air and reason. Where had my composure gone? What was this feeling in my chest, this black hole of emotion that had suddenly materialized? It was sucking my entire being into it.

I looked back at him and saw no triumph on his face.

And I realized he had been sincere with that kiss. He had been trying to communicate with me. He'd had no ulterior motives. He was serious about wanting to know why I had kissed him. He had thought it had meant something.

After he left, I thought for a long, long time. I thought about what Shizuo meant to me. I thought back to the day we had first met. Why had I antagonized him? Because I had known I could get a reaction. I had known all about him. He was legendary, the boy who could destroy anything. I wanted the thrill of fighting a titan. I wanted to outwit brute strength with mental strength. I wanted to crush something magnificent.

It was envy, I think. The reason small children crush anthills. I had always thought it was maliciousness (and I thought I was the embodiment of that particular word), but reading some studies—researching, as it were—I found it was a subconscious envy of the beauty of the system.

Now, Shizuo is far from systematic. He's not organized emotionally or otherwise. But he is beautiful. His strength is beautiful. His power is beautiful. I want his power. I love power. That is why I destroy people, why I contort them to fit my mold. I love the thrill of the power. This second part is something he helped me realize. I just gave him the pieces; I told him about envy and he told me about my power complex. He's actually pretty smart, my Shizu-chan. He understand things I don't about the way people work.

I straddled him carefully so I wasn't actually touching him except for my knees against his sides and pushed my arms into the mattress so my hands sunk in deep. I leaned over him, my soft hair brushing against his skin. I chastely kissed the lowest part of his spine that I could reach from this angle and repeated the motion all the way up to his neck, which was covered in thick blonde hair. Then I went back down to the same spot and pressed my tongue against it, running it up to the yellow locks.

He shivered at the strange sensation, but offered no other response. I did it again, backing up and starting lower this time, around the same place my hand had landed earlier. He turned over between my legs and sat up tiredly, his eyes only half open. "Why are you licking me so early in the morning?"

"I dunno," I shrugged happily, poking his belly button lightly. He swung his arm around to capture me and pulled me down to the bed with him. I wriggled around so my back was to his stomach and sighed as I lay my head next to his on the pillow.

He kissed my hair lightly and pulled me closer to him. "Pesky little flea," he said affectionately.

I felt a little lump of something I've come to recognize as happiness in my chest and curled my fingers gently around his arm.

Cute.

Shizuo is cute.

He makes me feel cute too. Cute and almost human.

Once he asked me about my past and I started laughing. I didn't know why I was doing it, but I just felt like laughing. My past. My past? Such a human thing to think about, the past. And then suddenly I was furious with him. I went over to where he was sitting in my desk chair, grabbed him by that ridiculous bow tie of his, and dragged him to the bedroom, and I fucked the question out of him.

A couple of weeks later he brought up my father (I found out later that he had asked my sisters since he hadn't been able to get anything from me) and something in me snapped. I attacked him. He held my arms as I tried to kick and scratch and bite him until my rage gave way to tears and I collapsed into his arms. He held me tightly as my tears and snot and sniffles soaked through his clothes, kissing the top of my head gently and stroking my hair, saying he was sorry, so sorry. It was a curious experience. I cried, but I didn't feel alone. I was surrounded by Shizuo. I cried, but I didn't feel sad. I felt happy and confused, because I'd never cried before, and I felt human at that moment.

I struggled a little in his arms. "Shizuo, you're making me hot. Let go," I mumbled. It was a lie. It was a chilly morning in November, and we were both only in our underwear (we were usually too lazy to put the rest of our clothes on after sex; last night had been no exception). He let me go anyway, and then rolled over to rest on his other side, facing away from me.

I sat up again and just stared at him for a while. I imagined a wind in the room and got shivers. I stretched my hand out to touch him again, hesitated for a moment, and but brushed my fingers against his hair. He's so beautiful, I can't help but want to touch him sometimes. I combed through the sleep-induced knots gently with my fingers, enjoying the feel of the smooth strands falling across them. I traced his spine lightly with one finger, then the curve of the muscles in his arms, his sides and hips.

I never really noticed him when we used to fight. It was like I saw him as an object, not a person. I told him that and he said I viewed everyone as objects. I suppose he's right. I see my humans as separate from myself.

The gap is slowly closing, though.

Shizuo's turning me into something like himself; something real. I'm afraid. It's like I'm falling into humanity. I don't know the rules. I don't know how to be human. Not the kind of human I want to be, anyway. I want to be strong, like Shizuo. I want to be happy. I've never seen happiness up close in anyone but Shizuo, and I don't think I can be like him.

"Shizuo," I said quietly.

He shifted onto his back and looked up at me through half-lidded eyes. "Hm?"

"I love you."

He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

I took this as a sign that I should repeat myself, so I did.

I am afraid. I don't know the rules. I've never seen happiness up close in anyone but Shizuo.

I am falling.

He smiled softly at me and sat up, pulling me into his arms again. "I love you too."

**xXxXx**

**Author's Nonsense: **I do not know what this is! I had the urge to write something sickeningly cute!

And so I did.

And now I have the feeling I've started yet another multi-chapter.

IT'S ONLY A FEELING THOUGH, PLEASE DON'T SPAM ME WITH POSTS LIKE 'I LUV THIS PLZ UPDATE SOON' cuz that'll just make me not want to update.

I want to go into Izaya's mind. This is kind of a character workshop with him. But I have plenty of other stories I'm working on that deserve much more attention than this one. I'll probably only write this when I'm in a very strange mood, like I am now.

That being said, I _do_ hope you like it. I'm not sending it to my beta because I feel like posting something and she's not online, so it's a little rough. I did read over it about seven times though so I hope it's at least decent.

Maybe when she goes on she'll edit it for me and I'll repost P:


	2. Sex

**xXxXx Sex xXxXx**

I've learned a couple things over the past few months.

One: There are differences between fucking, sex, and making love.

Two: It's really, _really_ hard (no pun intended) to make love to Izaya.

If you know anything about him, it makes sense. Trying to make love to Izaya is like trying to make love to a ten year old (you know…without the pedophilia). He kicks and screams and fights you at every turn, desperate to maintain his youthful _bitchiness_.

Okay, that's not entirely true. It's pride. He's probably the proudest person I know, even though he usually disguises it with crazy. He loves to consider himself above the rest of us humans, and that's because he thinks so much of himself.

Now, I always knew he had to have come up with that defense—yes, it is a defense—for some reason. Something had to happen to give him that kind of complex. I just never cared when we still hated each other's guts. Duh, right? But our relationship has transformed into the most different and the most similar thing possible (you know, that fine line between love and hate and all that pretentious nonsense). Now I care. I care more than anything.

I felt a bit like Izaya when I had to go digging for the reason why. I'd had my suspicions about his parents for a while. Izaya doesn't keep any pictures of them, anywhere. None of his sisters either. I figured they reminded him of his time with his parents, so that made sense. And this all is saying nothing of his scars. He's got tons of them all over his body, marring his perfect skin.

I'm actually on good terms with his sisters, or at least I was back when I hated their brother. The first part is because they're obsessed with _my_ brother. The slight shift you might have gotten a hint of from my phrasing was obviously because of my changed status. They pretend like they don't approve of me, but I know it's because they love him. They love him and they fear him.

This is what I learned from them, after lots of interrogating: Izaya's father was crazy. Like, legitimately crazy. Crazier than Izaya himself, proved by how he _caused_ aforementioned crazy. And when I'm done with this, don't you try to tell me his father went mad because of grief. You have to be mentally sick to do this to your child.

From the time his mother died when he was ten years old, Izaya's father started raping him.

Everything make a lot more sense now?

Apparently he looked more like his mother than either of the girls did. They had slightly lighter hair, different facial angles. Mairu also told me that their mother was…well…not as well endowed as most women were. So the transition was easier for their father.

The first time I brought up anything at all, he fucked me. Really fucked me. I thought before we had been fucking, but that had just been sex. Fucking is angry and bitter and heart-breaking, and I hope we never do it again. He got this sly little smile on his face, behind which I knew was the scariest face I could ever hope to see (not that I did), and dragged me into his bedroom.

A few words about that. Izaya has the eeriest bedroom you could imagine. There's a bed in it, and nothing else. The frame is black stained wood, the same color as the cover. The sheets are blood red. He keeps his clothes and everything in a separate room. If he has to wake up at a certain time, he sleeps with his phone and uses that for an alarm. When I asked him about all of _that_, he didn't even make the connection. He just said because he was my strange little Izaya-chan. (I never have and never will call him that, by the way.)

Usually when we have sex, we do it at my place because there's absolutely no chance of Namie coming in. Also, I don't completely trust that Izaya doesn't have cameras all around even his own apartment. But when we do it at his place, it's usually some obscure location like the couch or the kitchen counter or the shower or even the floor. This was the first time we'd done it in his bed.

He threw me down and before I could even think about getting up he had stripped off his pants. As I was asking him what the hell he was doing, he was tugging down my own and replying with something nonsensical like, "I just got really horny all of a sudden." He gave up on trying to take my pants off me completely and just yanked them a bit so he could get at my dick. He straddled me and grabbed me with one hand, supporting himself with the other, and started pumping me. Then I guess he figured my mouth was too irritating to deal with, what with my protests streaming from it, and just bit me really hard on the neck instead. I actually have a scar, though I know it's nothing compared to his.

I wasn't trying to indulge him, and I know now that I should have offered much more resistance. If I had known what he was doing I would have gone so far as to throw him against a wall, because it would probably hurt him less. As it was, as soon as I was hard enough, he slammed himself down on me and rid out his anger, smiling insanely all the while.

I did something so stupid after that. I left. I was angry because I knew there was something he wasn't telling me. If I couldn't go back in time and change that I let him fuck me, I would at least have made myself stay there with him.

He trashed his apartment. When I left he threw things all over the place. I came back the next morning and it looked like Namie had finally gotten sick of his shit and hacked the place to bits with a chainsaw. At first that was what I thought had happened. Then I couldn't find him until I checked the bathroom and found him sitting on the floor of the shower. He still denies that he had been crying, and really it would be impossible to tell because he had been sitting there all night and any redness would have faded from his eyes by the time I found him, but I'm sure that he was.

The water was freezing, and I was glad I had only left at two and come back at six, because otherwise he might have been dead. I don't think he was trying to kill himself, but I figure he's reckless enough with his body that it would be possible for him to do it inadvertently.

I grabbed him from the stall and threw about fifty towels on him before I took him in my arms and hugged him tightly. He just stared at me emptily. Then it occurred to me that he might get hypothermia, which I knew very little about and didn't want to take the time to research under the circumstances, so I "borrowed" one of his neighbors' car and brought him to the hospital.

They promised to take care of him, but since I'm not his spouse or anything (fucking bullshit) I wasn't allowed to stay with him overnight. And in case you're wondering about the car, I paid for the broken window and offered the neighbor a sincere apology and an explanation of the situation.

I thought he would hate me after that, but he was too immature to even admit it had happened. On the walk back from the hospital he even asked me why I was fretting over him so much. As if he didn't know.

I let it go for a few weeks, hoping to preserve my own status in his life. If he kicked me out, who would watch over him? I was worried about him, more than I'd ever been about anyone. I've hurt people before, badly, but that's always been my fault. My responsibility. My guilt. This wasn't something I'd done, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I didn't know how to fix it. I could only watch as he tried not to drown in it.

He went back to his old self quickly, but I wasn't convinced of his safety. I spent more time with him during that month than I probably had chasing him around Ikebukuro.

Then I met with his sisters.

I needed to talk to him about it, whether he was ready for it or not. He'd had seven years to deal with it, and he hadn't yet, so now it was my turn to try.

We were watching a movie. I have no idea what it was called and I barely remember the details, so don't ask. He was leaning against my chest, curled around me like a little koala or monkey or something. I hated to break up the moment, but I knew I had to.

I paused it and he looked up at me for a second, then he smiled. "Feeling…frisky? Shizu-chan?"

I sat him up and he looked at me curiously, warily. I took his little hands in mine, rubbing my thumbs over them contemplatively. "Izaya…I think we need to talk about something."

He tried to pull off one of his signature smirks, but wasn't quite able to, sensing that I was on to something big. "You have a stupid look on your face when you're trying to be serious," he said.

I shook my head. "I don't care, Izaya. We need to talk about your father."

He stared at me for a minute. Then he pulled his hands out of mine. His eyes started searching my face for anything that would tell him, "Just kidding!" and somewhere along that line I lost him. I looked at him and I saw that he didn't recognize me anymore. With a terrible, hurting cry he lunged at me, trying to scratch me or punch me or do anything. I was really glad he didn't have his knife on him. I quickly grabbed his wrists and shouted his name over and over, desperate to get through to him.

"Izaya! Izaya, stop! Izaya! It's me, Shizuo!" At that he froze, his hands twitching because he had tensed them so hard. I'll never forget the way his face contorted and he started crying, right in front of me. This amazingly proud human being was crying in front of me. The word that came to mind was "trust". He trusted me. My heart broke with that realization. That he could trust me enough to cry in front of me was the greatest form of flattery that I could imagine. I felt terrible.

I turned him around so his back was to me and held him, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head, muttering apologies every couple of seconds. He just clung to my arms and wailed, staining my shirt with tears. It took him an hour to calm down. Thinking about those eight years of pain, I'm surprised it only took him that long. I would have held him forever.

So around twelve-thirty, his screams turned to occasional sniffles. His eyes and nose were red and puffy, and his face was stained with tears and mucus. After about a half hour of just sitting there in near silence, he got up and went to the bathroom to wash himself off.

When I asked him if he was okay, his response was like that of a toddler who had just fallen on the sidewalk. It was so meek, so vulnerable. It broke my heart all over again.

I took my soiled shirt off and put it on the table, then went to the kitchen to wash my hands. I thought about how much more sensitive I would have been to him our first time. I beat myself up about it. I thought about how he had kicked me out after a couple hours into the next day, telling me I needed to stop babying him. I had been concerned about his physical well-being. I'd had no idea about his mental state.

"Shizuo?" I heard his voice from the big room, and realized I had been staring at the faucet for a couple of minutes. I shut it off and went back to where he was standing, looking confused and panicked, thinking I had left.

"Lie down," I said gently.

"I don't want to have sex," he said brokenly, hurriedly, noting my absent shirt.

"No, I know, it's okay. Just lie down. I need to show you something." He sniffed loudly and his eyes grew a little shinier, but he did as I asked him. I crawled over him and kissed him chastely on the forehead, then the nose, then the lips. He closed his eyes and silent tears leaked from them, but he kissed me back. It was soft, lacking passion, but making up for it with compassion. "I love you, baby, it's okay," I whispered against his lips. It was the first time I had said it, and it felt like it sent another crack down my heart to have waited so long. He nodded and hugged me to him.

I slid my hand down to his pants and undid the button, and he freaked out. He started struggling again, and his eyes took on that same blank look. "No, daddy I don't want to, NO! Please!" Then he did start crying again. I captured his lips in another kiss.

"Izaya, listen to me, I'm not your father," I reassured him as he fought against me. "I'm not. It's okay. Shh."

"Sh-Shizuo?"

"Yes. I love you," I said again, carefully pulling down the zipper.

"Shizuo. Shizuo. Shizuo, Shizuo—" he began, his eyes still wild. He started hiccupping my name. I pushed his pants and underwear down a little, exposing him.

"I'm going to show you how I'm different, baby. Don't cry. I love you so much." I rubbed him so lightly my hand was barely touching him. He looked up at me fearfully, his arms clamped around my neck. He sniffed and hiccupped more. I kept repeating, "It's okay, it's okay." Part of it was convincing myself, I think. Was I just being selfish? Did I just have to prove to myself that I was different than his father? That I could _be_ different than his father. I had to promise him that I would never hurt him, and that I would protect him. Two very different things. His father undoubtedly said he would protect him, but he definitely hurt him.

He inhaled sharply and more tears leaked from his eyes as I kept stroking him. His length grew hard in my hand, became harder and harder until he came, his eyes pinched closed, his toes curling. He looked up at me mournfully, and I had never seen him so vulnerable as I saw him then. I knew I probably wouldn't ever see him that way again. That was making love.

I put him away and he took off his dirtied shirt as well, and then we turned off the lights and went to sleep right there on the couch.

Don't think our relationship is about sex. It's not. We love each other. He hasn't said it, but I know he loves me as much as I love him. Needs me as much as I need him. If it was about pure physical attraction, we probably would have started doing it in high school. We have meshing personalities, Izaya and me. I rarely think before I act, and Izaya thinks too much. I'm mature and he's not. We don't like the same things, but between us we like enough. We aren't the perfect couple, for sure, but we've got what it takes to make it.

**xXxXx**

**Author's Nonsense:**

So. It may or may not shock you to know that I have no idea where I'm going with this. I just know I want to go deeper into Izaya's personality, because it fascinates me. Mmyes. I like making Shizuo a smart cookie too. And a softie. Pff. _Making love_. You pansy.

Jk I want a boyfriend like Shizuo. Or at least like the Shizuo I write. I WOULD BE AN AWESOME BOYFRIEND IS THE POINT. If only I had a penis :)

Oh man and I gotta say, I've only gotten like four reviews but they've all been FAN-FRIGGIN-TASTIC and I bet that's why I woke up at two in the morning to write this. Because I love you.

And yeah, that's the last thing. It's the weekend, so I have a bit more time to write. Don't expect me to indulge in it if I get another writing idea while I'm TRYING TO EFFING SLEEP, THANKS BRAIN. So I don't know when I'll update next, but it might not be for a while!

Or it could be in three hours.

The point is, I don't know!


	3. Incidents: Part One

**WARNING: This chapter is very much rated M. It contains nonconsensual man-on-boy parental rape. If this will disturb you, please do not read it. You have been warned.**

**xXxXx Incidents: Part One xXxXx**

The first incident occurred a week after my mother died.

That was also the day I first tried to cook.

My father, needless to say, spiraled into a depression. After the funeral, the reality that she was gone forever sunk in, and he spent every second in bed, staring blankly at the TV. I doubt he absorbed even a second of it. My sisters were only six at the time; they barely understood that Mommy was never coming back, let alone why Daddy wouldn't smile at them or play with them like he had before.

In his catatonic state, I was unknowingly left to take care of our dwindling household.

It was the day after the funeral; I was crying in my room like I had been since she died when there was a knock on my door. I dried my eyes, unable to do anything about the lingering redness, and shoveled the pile of used Kleenex under into the trashcan next to my bed. "What?" It sounded harsher than I had meant it, explaining the few seconds of silence that followed.

"Iza-chan?"

I immediately felt guilty when I saw Kururi's face peek through my door. "Sorry," I said in a softer tone, "What do you need?"

She opened the door the rest of the way; Mairu was next to her, holding her hand as always. "We're hungry. Daddy hasn't made dinner yet."

I glanced at the clock on my bed stand and almost immediately my stomach gave a growl. It was five o' clock. I had wasted the entire day in my room. I felt a pang of sympathy for my sisters, who had starved silently all day to give me some time to myself. With a sniff, I rubbed my already raw eyes and shakily moved to the floor. They shuffled out of the doorway and followed me into the kitchen. I hopped up on the counter and looked in the cabinets for bread so I could throw together some sandwiches, but all we had was a few rock-hard slices. Our father had managed to heat up some of the food our neighbors and more distant relatives had brought us over the last few days for all our meals, but now the stores had dwindled. Though I knew our parents had a strong aversion to the ridiculously high sodium content in ramen, I clung to the hope that we might have some stashed away. We didn't.

Biting my lip, I turned and looked at my expectant siblings. I didn't want to ask my father for money to go to the store; the idea that he had failed to support his family would heap on unnecessary grief that I felt, as another man, I had to help shoulder away from the girls. So I decided to take responsibility. I had watched my mother make pot stickers and rice a thousand times. It didn't seem too hard.

Fortunately my third attempt at locating a suitable dinner was successful. I knew always had a huge store of rice, and conveniently, we were also in possession of a large bag of pot stickers. It even had directions on the back, which I followed precisely. I found the instructions for the rice cooker in a file in our father's office and endeavored to prepare the second course. It was pleasantly distracting, this cooking thing. I happily inhaled the scent rising from the pot and stuck a finger to the perfectly sticky rice I had made. My success gave me a strong feeling of satisfaction.

I started apportioning the food into five bowls and was ladling rice into the fourth one when I realized my error. The momentary elation I had gained quickly drained away. I hurriedly put the extra dish away before the twins noticed and bit back the tears that started burning at my eyes. Unable to open my mouth lest I lose what remained of my feeble self-control, I handed the food to them silently and paced down the hall to my father's room.

I don't know how long I stood there before I finally got the courage to knock (by means of tapping my foot lightly against the door), to disturb my remaining parent as he grieved; to risk bringing that overwhelming sadness rushing back up to the surface. But maybe if I could show him that I was coping, and that I could help him take care of the family from now on, he wouldn't feel so alone. I thought I could help him.

"Come in," he called quietly.

With a bit of difficulty, as both my hands were occupied with food, I maneuvered the door open.

"I made dinner," I said murmured. There was no pride in my voice.

My father smiled weakly and patted the bed, signaling I should join him. I did, only allowing myself a little bit of happiness from the first sign of life and affection he had shown in days. He took the bowl I offered him and uttered the traditional Japanese blessing. I mimicked him, eager to eat.

We were about half way through our silent, comfortable meal, when he said, "It was such a stressful day at work today."

I paused, then swallowed the rest of the food I had only half-completed chewing. "Daddy…you didn't go to work today," I reminded him cautiously.

He acted as if he hadn't heard me at all. He set down his bowl on the bed stand and cupped my cheek. I shivered when I saw his eyes. He had never looked at me that way before. His smile had something deeper in it than parental love. My heart beat faster, giving me a warning I did not heed. I hesitantly put my bowl down on the table that was on my side of the bed, and when I returned my hands to my knees, my father took them in his own. "Dinner was lovely, Aiko."

Blood thrummed in my ears. "But Daddy, Mommy is gone…" My voice cracked and my eyes blurred immediately with stinging tears.

Again, he did not hear my words, but responded to me deafly. He wiped away the tears that had leaked onto my cheeks and pulled me to him. Naively, I thought it was a hug. I instinctively angled towards his shoulder, but he steered me to his lips and captured them with his own.

Overwhelming confusion surged up in me, bringing bile to my throat. I pulled back and coughed, but he was back on me the second I broke away. I felt strange, wrong, and numb. I was pushed down onto the bed as I tried to discern what was happening, my tiny arms pinned above my head. His free hand roamed under my shirt and I gasped as his callous fingers brushed over my nipples. As soon as my lips parted, my father's tongue slipped into my mouth and swirled around my own.

Though I didn't know the word at the time, I felt violated. I struggled violently, trying to turn my head and torso away to free myself from the repulsive touches, but could not. My shirt was pushed up to my neck and greedy lips brushed across the tiny pink buds on my chest. I seized my chance. "Daddy, stop! It's me, Izaya! Stop!"

My pleas fell against his closed ears. "Aiko, be quiet, we don't want to wake the children," he chastised me. I thought of Mairu and Kururi. I didn't know exactly what was going on, but I knew it was wrong. I felt more afraid than I ever had in my entire life, and I knew I didn't want what was happening to me to happen to them. If I screamed, they would hear me. They would come running, my ever-affectionate sisters, intent on curing me with something as weak as a hug. But if they came in now, I feared he would turn to them. Poisonous black terror boiled within me as I realized I had to do what he said. I was trapped.

My breathing grew harder, interspersed with little whines and sobs. He took these as signs of encouragement and moved lower, sucking up little bruises all over my chest and stomach, easily covering the entire span of my ten-year old body, though he had to keep my wrists pinned. His teeth pulled at the elastic on my pants playfully. "Daddy, please!" I whispered, "_No!_"

His selective hearing activated again. He smiled up at me and I was further agonized by the look of something almost innocent in his eyes. I tried to offer another protest, but I was suffocating on a mixture of air and bile and couldn't move. He pulled my pants off and tossed them to the side.

My father was so far gone that he didn't even notice I was different, that there was no possible way I could be his beloved, deceased wife. He proceeded to un-button his own pants and free his erect length. He pulled a condom from his pocket and fixed it to himself with one hand.

The feeling I had that something was terribly wrong increased exponentially in the following seconds until it nearly choked me. Adrenaline surged through me and I thrashed wildly so that I nearly broke free of him.

He grabbed one of my legs and steadied me by squeezing until it bruised and I whimpered. "I understand, my love, you are impatient." He chuckled and my heart throbbed with fear—fear so strong it could have killed me if I had only let it. What happened next made me wish it had.

My father started pushing into me, dry, and I screamed involuntarily. He took his hand off my wrists and covered my mouth, saying something like before about waking the children. I didn't hear it, too far immersed in the feeling that I was sure was going to split me into pieces. I clawed at his arm frantically, but my over-trimmed nails were useless. He didn't even look at me as he entered me; his face was fixed upward in a state of bliss due to my tight, virgin heat.

My fingers gripped him with strength I didn't know I had when he started thrusting. My eyes crossed from the unbelievable agony and my screams could almost be heard from under his heavy hand. The same hand was pressed up against my nose, so I could barely draw in air. I grew woozy and fell silent, though the pain was still potent enough to fog my vision with red. I suppose I should have been thankful it was so good for him, because he drew out of me and came after only a few minutes.

When he was done he rolled off of me and lay on the bed, stroking my hair. Frozen with pain, I remained still. Gradually the petting stopped and he fell into a deep sleep.

I could barely turn to look at him, horrified and destroyed, but I had to confirm that it was over. Once I had turned my head, I stared and let my heartbreak sink in. My mind was blank, but for a dull throbbing of negative emotions. I imagine it wasn't any combination of specific ones, but all of them, thriving in the vacuum of my broken psyche.

Suddenly my stomach turned and I was propelled by a poorly-timed sense of propriety to the toilet in my father's bathroom, where I vomited. I collapsed on the cold tile floor and just bled, losing both my physical life and my happy memories. All were erased by this devastating incident.

I thought of my mother, perhaps instinctively wishing she was here to comfort me, to protect me from my breaking world. I saw her beautiful face for an instant, and then my father's voice addressing me as her resounded in my head and I threw up again.

The adrenaline left me with what would be my two knew friends for the months to come: a churning sensation in my stomach and an indescribable ache in my rear. I curled into myself, clutching at the former, trying to twist into a way that would alleviate the ravaging effects of the pain without success. I finally settled and soft whimpers escaped my throat. I was so tired, but every part of me protested against sleep.

I was filled with the feeling of being alone. All of my trust for him evaporated, but at the same time I felt there was a part of me that still loved him. I squeezed my arms, overwhelmed by the paradox of the conflict. I felt that I should hate him, and part of me did; but I was so young, and all I wanted was for the nightmare to be over so I could go back to my life.

I started thinking I had been living in a dream since my mother had died. I choked out silent tears as a part of me reprimanded myself harshly for the foolish thought. I thought of every single bad thing I had done in my life. I had maliciously stepped on a butterfly at the zoo once, killing it. I had refused to share my candy with my sisters and teased them about it until they cried. I disobeyed my parents by throwing a baseball inside and ruined my mother's favorite vase. I hadn't tried hard enough to be a good brother, a good son. These tiny guilts buried me. I was the worst kind of person. I deserved to be alone forever.

I would atone for my crimes by serving my sentence and protecting my sisters from the same fate, and I would suffer as I was doing it. They were untouchable to me—pure—I could only remember goodness radiating from them as they colored quietly in their room or stacked blocks to build princess castles.

This resolution gave me the gravest kind of contentment. Tears flowed with renewed vigor down my cheeks, pooling onto the blood-soaked rug I was curled upon. My mind finally ceased to work and I stayed in a state of deadness for a few hours.

Somehow moonlight broke through my glazed vision. All my limbs shook and my wrists ached where they had been bruised as I gradually eased myself up, careful not to put too much pressure on the sorely damaged part of my body. It was agony to stand, but I forced myself to endure it, remembering my solemn vow. Wrapping the rug around me, I clung to the walls and the furniture, edging my way to my room. When I crept past my father, I nearly asphyxiated myself, as my breathing instinctively slowed to a near stop.

I paused outside my sisters' room and looked in at them. Already I had been forced to mature to the point that I envied the innocent looks on their sleeping faces. More than that, I envied that they had each other.

Heart throbbing, I turned on the faucet in the other bathroom, which was thankfully on the other side of the house from my father's room. I folded the rug and hid it in the cabinet under the sink, determined to erase evidence of my father's guilt so I could at least preserve the girls' opinions of him. I eased myself into the tub and lay in a shallow pool of water, first dying it pink, then a milky red. It quickly became cold, but I stayed there for hours. When all my limbs went numb, I crawled out and staggered to my room before collapsing, wet, naked, and forever ruined onto my bed.

**xXxXx**

The next day, he was father of the year. It was a good thing too, or I might have died. I developed a terrible fever of forty degrees.

Despite having magically overcome his grief, my father took another two weeks off of work to nurse me back to health. My sisters showed the basic feelings of worry towards me that they could manage, but were overjoyed to have their father back.

I, however, was stony and silent. I kept my covers pulled tightly around me and said nothing when anyone entered my room. My frosty demeanor was chalked up to illness. As I was determined too sick to leave the house, my father called an old family friend by the name of Kishitani to make a house call the next day. At midnight, despite my crippling physical condition, I took my sheets to the bathroom and scrubbed the blood stains out of them with bleach that burned my hands.

When the doctor came, I hid my bruised wrists beneath the sheets under the pretense that my hands were cold. He accepted this with an understanding smile and examined me from the shoulders up. I was advised to drink lots of fluids and stay in bed.

My father started cooking again, making traditional Japanese meals for my sisters and soup for me. He came to check on me every hour or so to provide me with a new glass of water or milk. I couldn't bring myself to look at him, and rejected his offers to get me anything. He brought a TV into my room and hooked it up for me so I could stare blankly at it as he had only days before.

When I slept, I relived the experience with the exaggerated additions of bad horror movies; I watched from an outsider's perspective, only I seemed to be cursed with vertigo and involuntary teleportation. I would see myself from different angles; sometimes I would briefly inhabit my father; at the worst of times, I was forced back into myself. I woke and vomited again. My father rushed into the room and rubbed my back as I shook. He cleaned up the mess and left a basin by my bed.

He brought a chair into my room on the third day of my fever and slept in there. With a great deal of effort, I forced myself to lock my eyes on his face. His expression was peaceful; undoubtedly his memory of the event had been erased, for his sleep was uninterrupted by the thrashing and twitching that plagued mine.

Slowly I crept out of bed and towards my closet. The television buzzed louder with white noise than with the sound from whatever show I was neglecting to watch. It cast an eerie glow of flashing colors on me as I silently picked up my baseball bat from where it was leaning. I held it at my side for many minutes, ignoring the screaming protests of my still-aching rear. I took a step towards the sleeping figure and lifted the bat over my head.

My father woke with a start as a motorcycle roared by the outside of our house. I stayed frozen, like a vengeful statue. He blinked at me and rubbed his eyes, then stood up and took the bat from my hands, placing his hands on my sides. I struggled at his touch and tried to kick and bite and scratch at him, but he went unharmed as he carried me back to my bed.

"Izaya! Izaya! Calm down, it's okay!" he said, trying to halt my flailing, "Izaya, wake up! It's me; it's Daddy!"

A wave of unprovoked nausea seized me and I scrambled over his arm to throw up half in, half out of the basin. He pulled a tissue from the near-empty box on my night stand and wiped the vomit off my face. After tossing it into the basin, he took another and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I tried to move away from him, but he gently steered my face towards him. I flicked my eyes towards the wall and breathed heavily through my nose.

"Izaya, look at me," he said sternly. After I did not respond, he repeated the request. Shaking violently, I obliged. His eyes were devoid of that strange element I had witnessed the night of the rape. I tried to swallow but my mouth was dry. "Izaya…" he said softly, letting go of me.

I broke down. My resolve, which had had the strength of a diamond wall when I had lain in his bathroom, crumbled immediately under this vastly different situation. His expression was the very embodiment of love. My face contorted and I wailed, collapsing against his chest. He rubbed my back again and shushed me as I got snot and saliva and tears all over him. I was unable to control myself; my pain broke out of me and I thought my chest would split with the relief I felt.

My screams woke the twins and they stood in the doorway of my room, watching. My father turned to them and motioned for them to join us. Kururi heard my anguish and was inspired to tears herself. Mairu's lip trembled as she tried to hold back, but she was unable to. They dashed up to my bed and hugged my father and myself.

"_Daddy!_" Mairu bawled, hiccupping violently, "_Is Izaya gonna die?_" Kururi repeated the question with some variation.

He choked a laugh and pulled her closer. "No, girls, he'll be just fine."

I think that was the first lie he ever told them.

**xXxXx**

This brief period of tranquility ended within another week. Again, Mairu and Kururi were tucked into bed. It had been decided that I would go back to school the next day, but in my renewed attachment to my father, I was determined to stay up later and watch a movie. It took some begging on my part, but he finally consented.

We sat on the couch and I leaned against him. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his chest. I looked up at him curiously, feeling his eyes on me.

I blanked out for a second after he started kissing me, but when I came back, adrenaline once more poured through my veins.

_No,_ I thought desperately, _not again._

I pushed against him with all of my weight, but he caught the back of my t-shirt. I continued to struggle to get away, and when my scrambling finally outmatched his grip on my shirt, my momentum shot me forward and brought me crashing against the TV. It crashed to the floor and so do did I. Like a trapped animal, I leapt to my feet, but my father caught me around the waist and pinned me to the ground.

I looked up, searching for something I could grab on to, and saw my sisters appear from around the corner. Suddenly a non-physical weight was crushing me too.

"Daddy, what happened?" Kururi asked.

Mairu's eyes fell on the destroyed television. "We heard a noise…"

Not only did he not react my struggling, he seemed to not even notice his two youngest children. Panic and the urge to protect my naïve siblings took over me, giving me a voice. "Run!" I screamed, "Get out!" My father bit down on the junction between my neck and my shoulder, chuckling darkly.

Kururi grasped her sister's hand more tightly. Mairu stared at me for a moment, a glimmer of understanding in her young eyes.

"Go, _NOW!_" I shrieked. The elder twin turned quickly and the girls fled.

The penetration the second time wasn't as bad. He forced his fingers into my mouth and coated his erection before entering me. I screamed and cried, praying that my sisters had escaped, and this time he did not restrict me. That infinitesimally small seed of love for him I had kept was ripped out of me. My sense that I was being punished returned tenfold, and I focused on the pain to make it worse. I had failed my one objective. I had let my guard down in the midst of a nightmare, and now my sisters would half to suffer some of my burden with me. I let out a terrible yell of fury and cemented it into my heart that they would never share my physical pain. What they had seen, I knew, was enough to scar them forever. Mairu, who had always been the stronger of the two, would try to protect Kururi, but it wouldn't last. They both knew something was wrong. I knew that one day they would find out just how wrong.

He left me lying face-down on the floor when it was finished. I snapped out of my deadened state when I heard him turn on the shower and I limped to my bathroom. When I was finished rinsing myself off, I put on my pajamas and crawled under the covers of my bed. I wept silently until I was pulled into a fitful sleep. I had stupidly convinced myself that because the twins had made it out of the house, I would never see them again. In securing them from physical pain, I had thought I would keep my father here with me so he could not seek them. In this way, there was yet another devastation waiting for me.

After about an hour of tossing and turning in my bed, the doorbell woke me. I didn't move. It rang again, and I heard my father's footsteps in the hall. "What's this about?" he asked tiredly.

"Shinji Orihara?" asked a voice I was unfamiliar with, "I'm Officer Kobayashi. I believe these are your children."

I sat up immediately, heart pounding.

"Oh—Yes, they are! Where did you find them?"

"They were wandering the streets. Are you aware of what time it is?"

"Very late, I'm sure. Mairu, Kururi, what were you doing out?"

"We wanted ice cream," Mairu replied monotonously. My thread of hope snapped. They were really back.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to come with me and file a formal report."

"Oh…Alright…let me just get my son…" Like a zombie, I stepped out of bed and walked to the door, meeting him in the hallway. "Izaya, why are you awake?"

"The doorbell woke me up."

He looked guilty. "We have to go down to the police station for a few minutes."

"Okay."

The drive was quiet. My sisters sat on either side of me in the back seat and gripped my hands. When we arrived at the station, Officer Kobayashi let us out and guided us into a room full of bright colors and toys to wait in while he asked our father questions.

"Iza-chan…" Kururi whispered, ignoring the coloring book the attendant had given her.

"It's okay," I lied without looking at her, "We're going to be okay. I won't let him hurt you."

"What did Daddy do to you?" Mairu asked.

"Don't worry about it. I'll protect you." They watched me with troubled eyes and I forced myself to look down and smile weakly at them. "Just go to sleep, and it will all be better in the morning." After a moment's hesitation, they snuggled against me and closed their eyes.

The police let my father off with a stern warning about negligence. The same officer that had found the twins brought us all back to our broken home.

The cycle started over again.

**xXxXx**

**Author's Nonsense:**

**Wow. I don't know how you guys felt reading it, but writing that made me really uncomfortable. In fact, I've been working on this all day, and it's put me in a really strange negative mood. I'm also kind of scared of myself.**

**And there are two more chapters of this.**

**Admittedly, they're not nearly as bad as this one. The next one is actually pretty tame. The last one actually might be as bad as this one for some people, depending on what you're sensitive to.**

**H-H-H-H-Happy N-New Year…**


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